Magical Thinking: L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between

I reckon I’ve had The Go-Between on my shelves for more than 20 years. Jacqui’s enthusiastic and thoughtful review finally spurred me to read it. (That plus I’ve taken a doubtless-brief-but-nonetheless-well-intentioned pledge to read books I already own rather than buy new ones.)

I can’t imagine matching Jacqui’s summary of the novel, so I direct you there for more details. I’ll just give a brief synopsis here. Leo Colston is a man in his middle sixties who, when the novel begins, finds a trunk full of old papers, including his diary from the year 1900.

As he remembers the dramatic events of that year—events we’re told have marked him forever, somehow left him unfit to participate in life—he tells us about his school days where he was first bullied and then later respected based on a strange incident I’ll say more about in a minute. When the school is suddenly closed for the year because of a measles outbreak, the almost-thirteen-year-old Leo is invited by his friend Marcus Maudsley to spend the summer at his family’s estate in Norfolk. The Maudsleys are richer than Leo and his widowed mother and he feels ill at ease and awkward in their home, not least because he has no proper summer clothes and the weather turns hotter than anyone can remember. Maudsley’s sister Marian (I think she’s about 19 or so) takes pity on Leo, buys him a new summer suit, and then, either as a result of a premeditated plan or, more likely, a readiness to seize the situation, for she knows Leo is ready to do anything for her, entices him into carrying secret letters to Ted Burgess, the hunky tenant farmer. Readers know long before Leo does that Marian and Ted are lovers; Leo is shocked when he finds out, not only because of the class difference, but also because she is engaged to be married to Viscount Trimingham, a fatally decent man who has been badly wounded in the Boer War.

(If the book sounds a bit melodramatic when I summarize it this way, I think I’m doing it justice.)

Anyway, Leo doesn’t want to be the lovers’ go-between anymore but Marian has ways of convincing him, ways just slightly more pleasant than those used by her rather demonic mother, the lady of the house, Mrs. Maudsley, who forces the presumably unwitting Leo to reveal the affair. Things end pretty badly, though most of the drama happens off-stage. What’s really bad, it seems, is the hold the whole situation has had on Leo, as we see in a coda in which the now elderly Leo continues to be manipulated by a very old Marian all these years later.


I read an old Penguin 20th Century Classics edition of the book, but in the US the book is published by New York Review Classics. Their edition has an excellent introduction by the Irish novelist and critic Colm Tóibín. Tóibín offers some background on Hartley, whose solicitor father made a fortune in the brick trade, moving the family up from the middle class. Hartley seems to have felt uncomfortable in the new world in which he moved (Harrow and then Oxford). Rather than rebelling against it, Hartley sought to become more a part of the establishment, trading the Methodism of his childhood for the Church of England, for example. In this regard, he seems rather like his protagonist Leo. Although it wasn’t much of a secret that Hartley was gay, there seems to have been something of the closet about him, a desire to blend in, but more to efface than to protect his difference.

Hartley doesn’t seem to have been much liked by the literary world. In 1923 Virginia Woolf recorded meeting “a dull fat man named Hartley” while visiting the socialite and patron of the arts Ottoline Morrell. One of the Sitwells called him “Bore Hartley.” I confess these descriptions make me more not less sympathetic to him, though Tóibín reports him as becoming increasingly conservative as he aged and always quarrelsome with servants (who certainly appear in a dim light in The Go-Between). I wonder, has anyone written his biography?

Tóibín’s most interesting point is that the novel isn’t really about either the foreignness or the persistence of the past—lots of people who have never read this novel know its first line: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there”—but rather about Leo’s self-division. He dislikes, even condemns Marian and Ted, yet he’s helplessly drawn towards them. Hartley professed to be surprised and dismayed when readers sympathized with the lovers. If that’s true, it’s a remarkable lack of insight that proves writers aren’t always good readers of their own work. Tóibín interestingly links Hartley to writers like D. H. Lawrence and E. M. Forster (all these sets of initials, aren’t their real names good enough for them?), other writers of the period who extolled the value of the senses in hide-bound English society.

I’m not really buying this comparison, because I don’t think Forster and Lawrence have much in common. Hartley is like Forester, I grant, in that both are writers who are at best ambivalent about the power of sensuality. Lawrence, by contrast, had no ambivalence there. Where the Hartley – Forster comparison comes up short, in my opinion, is in their differing use of narrative voice. Forester never wrote in first person, as far as I know; he certainly wasn’t compelled to trace the modulations of a distinctive first-person narrative voice the way Hartley does here. Forster’s concern with the unreliability of perception attaches itself to skepticism about third-person omniscience.

No, the writer Hartley really reminded me of is Kazuo Ishiguro. Now that I think of it, I rarely hear critics placing Ishiguro in any kind of literary tradition or continuum. (Not that I know the Ishiguro criticism particularly well; correct me if I’m wrong.) If anything he’s discussed as part of that flowering of new English writing in the 1980s, the Granta writers, the young Turks who are now the old guard of English literature (Rushdie, Amis, Graham Swift, Jeanette Winterson, McEwan, etc). Hartley seems like an important model and precursor for Ishiguro, although I think Ishiguro is more sophisticated in his use of unreliability, more unreliably unreliable if I could put it that way, and a better writer all around. But I’ve only read one novel by Hartley, and most of Ishiguro’s, so I ought to read more of the former to be sure. Looking around my shelves, I find I’ve got six other Hartley novels lying around—he’s apparently one of those writers I’m highly invested in even though I hardly know anything about them—so I certainly could find out.


I just want to say two other things about The Go-Between:

I couldn’t decide how clueless Leo is supposed to be. Or, rather, I couldn’t quite decide whether the events of that summer are supposed to be told by Leo at the time or by Leo in retrospect. Sometimes we are clearly dealing with a child’s voice:

She was silent and I felt for the first time that she was unhappy. This was a revelation to me. I knew that grown-up people were unhappy—when a relation died, for instance, or went bankrupt. At such times they were sure to be unhappy: they had no option: it was the rule, like mourning after a death, like a black margin around the writer paper. (My mother still used it for my father.) They were unhappy to order. But that they should be unhappy in the way that I was sometimes, because something in my private life, to which perhaps I couldn’t give a name, had gone wrong—that hadn’t occurred to me.

Here we’re in that Jamesian world of innocence ruined, though James famously set himself tougher challenges than writing about a teenager, as when he sought to narrate from a child’s perception though not in a child’s language in his novel about a five-year-old buffeted by a nasty divorce, the magisterial What Maisie Knew. Plus, the parenthetical sentence could only be narrated within the present of the narrated events.

But at other times it’s harder to pin down the voice. Here the narrator has accompanied the family and the other house guests to church:

Again Lord Trimingham was the last to leave. I thought Marian would wait for him, but she didn’t, so I did. Most of my shyness with him had worn off, and I was disposed to think that everything I did or said became me. But I did not want to broach at once the subject that was uppermost in my mind.

I was disposed to think that everything I did or said became me. By this point in the novel, Leo has had two great successes. He’s made a splendid catch in an important cricket match and then sung two songs to great success at the party afterwards. And he’s meditated a lot on how extraordinary the attention made him feel, and how uncomfortable too. But that complex and complexly phrased sentiment, of being disposed to think one’s words and actions become one, with its quality of self-deprecation and irony that undermines the ostensible meaning of the words—that seems an attitude that only the older Leo, looking back on himself, would be in a position to note. And yet the story really only works if the older Leo is kept in abeyance. If retrospection governed the narrative too completely there would be no suspense, and our sense of how children and adults can work at cross-purposes, in which ignorance tragically shades into malevolence, would be much reduced.

One way to read the end of the book is that it shows Leo never really learns anything, but that would challenge even further the sense that the older man can make sense of his younger self. Perhaps it is just this uncertainty—that the older man thinks he knows more than the younger, yet proves to be just as or maybe even more clueless—is what Hartley wants to get at in a passage like the one I’ve cited. That would be pretty sophisticated; I suppose I wasn’t convinced that novel is quite that sophisticated, but maybe I’m under-selling it. (And it’s an awfully good book, don’t get me wrong.)

So that’s one thing. The other is about the supernatural. Young Leo, we learn, is fascinated by the zodiac and by the idea that events can be determined by spells. The way he moves from being bullied to being respected at school is that he puts a curse on two boys who have been tormenting him; soon afterwards they fall off the roof during a nighttime escapade and hurt themselves badly. When word of the spell gets around—I can’t remember if Leo puts it out himself or if it’s found out in some other way—Leo’s stock rises dramatically and he is soon being asked by his classmates to create imprecations and spells to order. Towards the end of the book he again has recourse to magic and again succeeds, though less clearly than the first time.

What is this material doing in this book? My sense is that the general way this book gets talked about (hot summer, lost innocence, boy becoming man, elegy for forgotten way of life) ignores this supernatural material. But it’s pretty important to the book; we hear a lot about it, especially in the first quarter or so. These weren’t the most evocative bits of the book, by any means (that would be the languorous descriptions of the heat, and the landscape, and the rituals of English life that someone like Ishiguro would later so profitably explore as strange performances). They seemed awkward, kind of clunky, something that belonged more in a Roald Dahl story, or some minor Greene work, than in the kind of book this seemed to want to be.

This lack of fit interested me, and I wonder if anyone has any ideas about it. One thought I had was that the spells are meant ironically, a way to emphasize how little control Leo (like all children) has over the world, and even to disparage him in our eyes, since he thinks he has control when he doesn’t. But I’m unconvinced because the book rather seems to believe in the spells. In that case, their efficacy would suggest Leo knows more than he thinks, if not more than he lets on. (This would be a peculiarly unconscious certainty.) But does Leo’s magic run out when he exchanges school for the adult world? Or are we to take him as more responsible for his actions towards Marian and Ted than it at first seems? Are Leo’s spells magical thinking—or are they really magic? I’m not sure the book knows how to answer that question. And that uncertainty makes me like it all the more.


18 thoughts on “Magical Thinking: L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between

  1. Such an interesting piece, Dorian – so much to comment on here. Fascinating background on Hartley, the NYRB editions always come with excellent introductions. I particularly like this:

    “Tóibín’s most interesting point is that the novel isn’t really about either the foreignness or the persistence of the past—lots of people who have never read this novel know its first line: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there”—but rather about Leo’s self-division. He dislikes, even condemns Marian and Ted, yet he’s helplessly drawn towards them.” Yes! Leo is completely torn between a sense of attraction and repulsion. It’s one of the key aspects of the novel for me, one of several contrasts in the story.

    I love the way you’ve highlighted Marian’s manipulative behaviour too. She’s a very complex creature – I had a great quote about her which I cut in the final edit of my post to get it down to a manageable length, but I added it to one of the comments:

    “No, it was her air of good-humoured impatience with things and people – her getting to a point before they did, and leaving it while they were still fumbling with it, her disturbing faculty of guessing what they were going to say before they said it, that made her seem superior to them. She arrived, while they plodded; her short cuts made them seem heavy-footed and prosy. She wasn’t superior in the sense of being patronizing; she took a great deal of interest in people, and never spoke to any of us as if he or she was someone else. But she had her own angle on us, and it was generally a slightly disconcerting one: she saw us not as we saw ourselves or as other people saw us.” (pg. 182)

    Your comparison with Ishiguro is an interesting one. The Go-Between reminded me of certain elements of The Remains of the Day, in particular, the focus on repressed emotions. Possibly the author’s control over the narrative, too.

    Re the spells, I wondered whether the fact that Leo’s magic touch seemed to desert him was a reflection of his moving from childhood (a state where the power of the imagination is king) into the adult world with all its realities and complexities. I’m not sure I have any answers to the other questions you raise, but the supernatural elements are an important aspect of the story. Maybe a second read would yield more on this front.

    I suspect there are a number of nods/references to classical mythology too: Mercury the messenger; Marian as a goddess to be worshiped by all; probably others, but my knowledge of this area is scant to say the least.

    Anyway, a fascinating post! I’m so glad you read it.

    • Thanks, Jacqui, for the kind words, and for giving me so much to think about here in this comment.
      Agree with the reading that the waning of magic could well be read as the move from childhood to adulthood. On the other hand, a number of the adult characters seem equally possessed by the belief that their world view can be imposed on the world, even if they don’t accomplish this by magical means (I’m thinking of Mrs. Maudsley in particular.)
      Yes, Remains of the Day was the Ishiguro I was most thinking of, but in general the sense of Leo as both put upon and yet also a bit disreputable and untrustworthy himself is what put me in mind of a connection between these two writers.
      On an unrelated note, I appreciate what you say about cutting your post down to a manageable size. Maybe if I was more diligent that way I’d have your number of readers too!
      Have you read anything else by Hartley?

      • Ah, you’re very welcome, Dorian. I have to admit that I didn’t even notice the length of your piece as it’s all top quality stuff! I doubt whether I could keep my readers with me for anywhere near the same length of time, so I try to stick to a limit of around 1,500 words, tops. That doesn’t always happen as some of them spill over when I get a bit away. Anyway, I really enjoyed your post, so no worries on that front.

        That’s a good point about Mrs Maudsley and her desire to impose her way of thinking on all in the immediate sphere of Brandham Hall. After I’d posted my piece, I found some time to watch the recent BBC adaptation of the novel, which I would recommend if it’s available to view stateside. Lesley Manville puts in an excellent performance as Mrs M with just the right amount of haughtiness and disdain on display.

        I really must read more of Ishiguro as it’s been a quite while. Do you have a favourite or one in particular you would recommend?

        This was my first Hartley, but I do have another couple at home: The Hireling and his Eustace and Hilda trilogy (a recent acquisition based on the strength of The Go-Between.) I’ll try to get to one of them next summer so let me know if you fancy reading something with me. It would be a pleasure. 🙂

      • Thanks again for the kind words.
        I’d like to get to the film sometime. (I gather there is a good version of The Hireling, too.)
        Re: Ishiguro, I think his first novel, A Pale View of Hills, is really wonderful and a bit ignored. I also love Never Let Me Go.
        Definitely up for more Hartley next summer. I have the Eustace & Hilda trilogy. I’d be curious to start with that, but The Hireling would also be great.

      • Cool. Let’s do a Hartley next summer – I don’t mind which, we can decide nearer the time.

        Thanks for the Ishiguro recommendation. I read Never Let Me Go just before the film adaptation came out and really liked it – an excellent book. I’ll add A Pale View of Hills to my ever-expanding wishlist. Cheers!

  2. Really interesting post (and discussion). I have the same old Penguin edition of the novel and have been meaning to read it ever since I picked up (now I forget where) that it is a key influence on Ian McEwan’s Atonement (which I greatly admire). Your post helps me see how that would be: key themes about childhood and memory and innocence lost are clearly shared. But I’m intrigued, too, by your linking it with Ishiguro.

    • Thanks, Rohan. Sometimes I think I’m the only person who hasn’t read Atonement. Not a huge McEwan fan but that one interests me more than others. I thought Hartley might be an influence on Alan Hollinghurst, but then I read an interview in which he mentions having written about him in his thesis but then dismisses him in a sentence, something like “He’s a minor novelist not worth paying attention to”…

      • I would certainly be interested in what you thought of Atonement. It’s a novel that’s very self-consciously engaged with modernism – and also (I think) both beautifully written and quite brilliantly constructed. (For instance, eventually a writer character gets advice on how to write her novel, and when you reread the start of Atonement, you realize she took the advice, which is way cool.) If I had started with earlier McEwan, I might never have read more — including Atonement. So I’m glad it was the first McEwan I read. It’s the only one of his novels I really love, though I’m always impressed at the precision of his style. I thought The Children Act was very good, better than Solar and or the beach one.

      • Does it also reference Northanger Abbey in some way? I seem to remember someone telling me that. I think I only like The Cement Garden and like isn’t really the best word for that book…

  3. OK, so I’ve clearly come late to this Hartley party, but since I count the Go-Between amongst my all-time favourites, I can’t resist chiming in here. (Is it possible that I recommended this book to you twenty years ago? I was big on Hartley in my Theory Centre days, to the point of writing a paper on self-other relationships in The Hireling).

    I think that what most appeals to me about this novel is Hartley’s perfect grasp of the experience of childhood, which most authors can’t seem to help intellectualizing and interpreting from a clearly adult point of view. The famous first sentence signals that this “secondary revision” is inevitable, but the novel really does, I think, capture the uncertainty of childhood, both desiring and fearing knowledge of the adult world. (I think you capture the ambiguity of Hartley’s narrative point of view splendidly in your post.) This also seems to me to be a potential answer to your question about magic (and I agree with what you say about the illusion of control). Leo makes a sort of unconscious Faustian bargain, gaining knowledge of the adult world, but without understanding the extent to which he remains controlled by it. The adult world is like magic to him; he seems to gain some mastery over it, but he doesn’t really know how it works.

    The 1971 film version is also (not coincidentally I suppose) an all-time favourite of mine. The Harold Pinter screenplay and Joseph Losey’s direction make some key changes, but largely capture Hartley’s tone, I think.

    I would highly recommend The Hireling, and while I’m only halfway through the Eustace and Hilda Trilogy, Hartley’s ability to capture the texture of childhood is on display there as well.

    Thanks for this fascinating read; I’d probably have more to say, but I’m afraid it’s been 20 years or so since I last read the novel…

    • Nat, yes I am sure you were the one who recommended this to me in the first place. And I know you gave me a copy of The Hireling. A wonderful blogger called JacquiWine and I were talking about reading more Hartley next year. It would be so great if you joined in. Anyway, I love your reading of secondary revision and especially of Leo’s Faustian bargain. That really helps make sense of what to me was quite puzzling.
      Why don’t people like Hartley more? I was disappointed to read an interview with Alan Hollinghurst in which he dismisses Hartley as a minor, basically uninteresting writer. At least Colm Toibin wrote a smart appreciation of him that is the introduction to the NYRB reissue.
      So nice to hear from you here!

      • Yes, even when I was most interested in him, I didn’t think of him as “literary” in the sense of those other modernists. At one point (partly because of this), I toyed with the idea of writing a dissertation on him, before I was claimed by the Romantics. And yes, I’d jump at any excuse to read more Hartley; it’s been years since I’ve read The Shrimp and the Anemone so I probably need to start the trilogy over anyway. I’d also reread the Hireling since I’d be intrigued to see if I see it differently after all this time.

        By the way, you’re making me realize I need to read some Ishiguro; I definitely see the connection to Remains of the Day, but I’ve only seen the film.

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